


We'll Tak A Cup o' Kindness Yet

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-06
Updated: 2010-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>naps, dubious beverages, first time, baked goods; a New Year's revolution</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll Tak A Cup o' Kindness Yet

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Auld Lang Syne" (Robert Burns). Written for wish 79 at insmallpackages: "Sam and Dean celebrate the New Year."

Dean’s grateful to have Sam’s soul back. Really he is. But there are occasions when the narcoleptic side-effects of resouling are a bummer, and New Year’s Eve is one of them. It’s very nearly midnight, and they are in motherfucking New York City, because it’s about to be 2012 and there’s no apocalypse looming and neither of them is in hell. It would be worth every penny of Robert Plant’s credit limit, Dean had declared, to get trampled and possibly mugged in Times Square, watching the stupid ball drop and being drunken tourists.

Only instead Dean’s squashed uncomfortably in the corner of the couch in their hotel room, with Sam slumped against his shoulder, alternately snoring and drooling. Dean should have predicted that this would be how his festive night would go. Everyone else is doing wild New Year’s Eve stuff. The ambient noise is impressive; he can hear it even through the hermetically sealed, double-glazed windows. All eight million New Yorkers, partying and dancing and blowing those stupid noisemakers. Except maybe a very few, very lame people who are holed up in hotels, watching their recently resouled siblings sleep.

He could wake Sam up, of course. But for once there are no signs of nightmares, and Sam didn’t sleep for a fucking year and change, and if a treacherously sappy corner of Dean's mind is suggesting that this is exactly how he wants to ring in 2012, well, that’s between Dean and his tiny bottle of cinnamon whisky. Which was all he could snag from the minibar without disturbing Sam. Even that had required a complex stretch and grab that he’s pretty sure ranks as his greatest athletic feat of 2011. He may have strained something.

There’s all of about three sips of the stuff, but it must have gone to his head. Because. Because they’re counting down on the muted TV screen, the ball is almost at the bottom, and, what the hell, Sam’s sound asleep. It’s 12:00 AM, January 1st, 2012, and Dean turns his head just a little and kisses his brother on the lips.

And freezes when Sam opens his eyes. Fuck. He really hadn’t meant to start off the year with the incest idea. Work it in gradually around June or so, yes, when Sam will be getting bored with how ordinary their lives have become, but not spring it on him by molesting him in his sleep a whopping two weeks after he’s been traumatically resouled. Shit. Maybe Sam didn’t notice. Maybe Dean can convince him it was a dream.

Sam blinks at him a few times. Dean's pretty sure he’s been stopped like a damaged DVD for too long now to pull off casual. He opens his mouth to say God knows what, but Sam isn’t actually freaking. He’s licking his lips and his expression is more thoughtful than anything.

“You’ve been eating candy,” he says. Which was not what Dean was expecting to be called on. For one thing, _that_ charge is totally, patently false.

“Have not,” he retorts, waving the mini bottle of Fireball in Sam’s face as evidence. Sam snatches the bottle and peers at it disgustedly.

“You’ve been _drinking_ candy. That’s grosser. And weirder.”

“It’s not that bad,” says Dean defensively. He has no idea why he is arguing the merits of something that tasted like fermented Hot Tamales, except that it beats explaining why he kissed his brother.

Sam looks at him seriously. “I guess I could get used to the taste,” he says. And he leans in and kisses Dean.

Dean’s breath leaves him all at once, along with every thought in his head. This is the real thing, tongues and teeth and Sam’s ginormous hands on his shoulders and Sam panting in his ear and, Christ, rolling over and pinning him to the couch and getting hard against him. He starts to tug Sam’s shirt up.

“Wait,” says Sam breathlessly, and Dean freezes again. Shit. He knew this was too easy. Of course Sam doesn’t want this. He’s just confused from a year and a half of soulless disconnect and then being kissed by his brother when he wasn’t awake yet.

“Shouldn’t we do this later?” Sam is continuing, “Didn't you want to go watch the ball drop?”

Dean gives him a relieved whack on the side of his head. “You slept through it, doofus. Welcome to 2012. The ball has dropped. And we’re not paying for a hotel in New York next time round, so you’ve missed your big chance.”

“ _One_ of my big chances,” Sam says. Then he slides down to kneel on the floor, undoes Dean’s button and zipper, and pauses for a moment, fingers stroking over Dean’s belly, under his shirt, dipping below his waistband. “Messed up a lot of those,” he says quietly, “but not all of them,” and he pulls jeans and boxers down, leans in, and nuzzles at Dean’s dick. “Sorry I dropped the ball on the celebrating New Year’s Eve thing, though,” he says, a bit muffled.

Dean’s working on a brilliant counter-pun involving his balls when Sam sucks him down and wordplay becomes a low priority.

***********************

  
The noise has died down a bit outside, but Dean can still hear it as a faint background murmur against the quiet rhythm of Sam’s breathing. Sam’s hair is tickling Dean’s chest and his breath is coming and going across his nipple. Dean’s dick gives a faint, interested twitch, but he’s too comfortable to want to do anything about it. Then Sam shifts around to look at him and Dean waits for him to say something embarrassingly girly, or something devastatingly laden with second thoughts.

“We should get cupcakes,” he says.

And Dean's got to wonder about this resouling business. Sure, Sam’s not the drooling (except for the eighty percent of his time he spends asleep), traumatized wreck that Cas had been afraid he'd be, but it’s possible he’s got a few crossed wires. Like, the connection between recent orgasms with his brother and an immediate need for cupcakes.

“What?” Dean says, “Dude, it’s two in the morning.”

“It’s only one,” says Sam, all reasonable, “Anyway, it’s New York. It’s New Year’s. I’m sure there’s some place open selling cupcakes.”

“Is this, like, some weird soul-craving?” Dean asks dubiously, but he’s reaching for his jeans. Sam’s right. They can probably find an all-night bakery. Maybe one that has pie, too, for the member of the family who isn’t terminally strange.

Sam shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed, and picks up his shirt. “I made you miss New Year’s Eve,” he says, “and there was all that, well, stuff, before. I should buy you a cupcake.”

If Sam wants to treat him to a “Sorry my soulless self let you get vamped” cupcake in the small hours of the morning, Dean’s not going to stand in his way. He finishes dressing, pulls on his boots, and goes in search of their jackets.

“Guess you got your work cut out for you, Sammy, making all that up to me,” he says, handing Sam his coat with a leer, and Sam grins back at him, easy and happy, like he hasn’t looked in years. He bumps his shoulder against Dean’s as they head out of the room.

“Hey,” he says, “Happy New Year.”  
  



End file.
